Holland days

Good morning, and Happy Birthday, America. Wow, 231 years old, and you don't look a day over 220. In fact, you look even younger than Colombia (who is turning only 197 later this month), so congratulations. I'm here on this 4th of July to weave a story of connections, international travel, deceit, drugs, false hope, serendipity, and ultimately, curry. I hope you took your Dramamine, because the storytelling's about to get choppy.

Yesterday, I wrote about the vast number of students I helped while working in the college office at UCSB. While many of them were just there to ask a quick question before grabbing a petition and leaving, I truly conversed with a large number of students who sat at my desk. One such student was a young lady named Reagan. She came in several times during her senior year, and together we looked over everything and made sure she was set to graduate. Near the end of Spring quarter, she asked if I was doing anything over the summer. I told her that my lovely girlfriend (now lovely wife) and I were going to visit Israel with a few days in Amsterdam at the beginning of the trip. Coincidentally, she was going to be living with her Dutch boyfriend right outside Amsterdam the whole summer and probably beyond. She gave me her many-digited phone number and said that maybe we could get a meal together at some point. I'm pretty sure neither of us ever expected to see each other again.

A little time passed, and KLM delivered us to Amsterdam. Weary from the long flight and time difference, we eventually made it to our hotel. We walked up to the front desk and gave our names. The desk attendant apologized and explained that they didn't have any rooms. "But we called and made reservations," I said. "And I called to confirm them a week ago and everything was fine," my now-wife said. The attendant explained that people often extend their stays in Amsterdam, and the hotel allows them to do that instead of kicking them out. Before I had the chance to ask if this was the Hotel California or something, I looked over to the t.v. room next to the lobby and saw billows of smoke that would be illegal in other places. There was my answer. Basically, people got so stoned that they forgot to leave when they were supposed to, and that was now my problem. It was very difficult to refrain from launching into the whole Seinfeld shtick about how "anyone can take a reservation."

Sensing our displeasure, the attendant told us that they had booked us a single room at a hostel nearby and they'd pay for us to take a cab there. We were told that our room would definitely be ready the next day, so we'd only have to spend one night at this other place. Still upset by the whole thing, we took the cab to the new place. The woman welcomed us when we explained our situation and said she'd been expecting us. She led us through the main room to another room...with six bunk beds in it. "Uh, we were told that we would have a single room here," I said. "This is all we have available," she responded flatly. Amber and I huddled for a minute to discuss our options. We were very tired, but not being the fancy-free teens of yesteryear, we really wanted to have a room (and bathroom) to ourselves. Could we do this for one night though? Single bunks with strangers in the room? "I have other people who want the beds if you don't," the woman said. "Can you hold them for us for one hour?" I asked. "Ok," she said, "but everything else is full too."

We went outside to a pay phone (remember those?) with a calling card we'd purchased earlier to tell our families we'd arrived. The way I saw it, we'd give Reagan a try to see if there was any way we could crash on her floor or couch for one night before going back to the hotel. I knew it was going to be an imposition, but we were in a pretty tight spot. I dialed, and she actually answered.

After our initial pleasantries, I explained all about the hotel, their lack of space, and the place they wanted us to stay instead. I was hoping that I'd been helpful enough at UCSB that she'd bend over backwards to help me. She said, "Oh man, that really sucks. I wish I knew of a place that was open." To me, that meant that her place wasn't an option, and I was about to accept defeat and suck it up for that one night. Or at least stay awake and keep guard over my girlfriend and our stuff as strangers stumbled in and out of the room.

Then Reagan said, "Oh wait, I just thought of something. Hold on." She put her hand over the phone and said something to someone else. Then she came back: "Our friend just left for Bali for 2 months and gave us the keys to his apartment. You guys can crash there tonight." I relayed that information to Amber, and we excitedly agreed to wait 45 minutes for Reagan to drive into town to find us and show us the place.

I was a little worried that I wouldn't recognize her, but it helped that we were the two over-tired Americans with big backpacks to help her spot us. She did, and I've never wanted to embrace an almost-stranger more. We followed her through some beautiful side streets as she tried remembering exactly where the place was. We walked entirely around one block without finding it, but neither of us complained since she was delivering us shelter. Eventually, we made it and she opened the door to her friend's place. I noticed immediately that the guy was definitely a smoker, but he was also a smoker with his own place and an internet connection.

We thanked Reagan a thousand times and agreed to meet up the next night to have dinner and give the keys back (provided our room was actually ready). We showered and then found a Chinese restaurant to scarf down some food before writing some emails and zonking out.

The next day, we went early to the hotel and found out that our room would indeed be ready that afternoon. We then spent some time wandering through the city, taking in the beauty of the canals and the old European feel of everything. Night came, and we met up with Reagan and her boyfriend Kees (pronounced "Case"). They took us to a Thai place in the city, and as I sat there drinking beer and eating a very spicy curry, I marveled at how we got to be in that place at that time. Just by being friendly while doing my job, I had the opportunity to escape an icky situation and land in a much more fun and comfortable one.

Let's consult the checklist from the beginning of the post: "connections, international travel, deceit, drugs, false hope, serendipity, and ultimately, curry." Check. Or I suppose "Dutch" would be more appropriate. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

The moral of today's story is simple: If you like curry, you should be nice to people. Have a great holiday everyone, and I'll see you back here tomorrow for our very special 5th of July edition.